


A Light In the Dark

by crazyinjune



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, I have yet to write a sad thing so here is a sad thing, M/M, shhhh it's not all doom and gloom, this is sad i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/pseuds/crazyinjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras comes home one night to find Combeferre covered in blood. He and Courfeyrac pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eirenical (chibi1723)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely eirenical as part of the Les Mis Holiday Gift Exchange :)
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you like it! xx

Enjolras comes home one night to find Combeferre sitting at the table, eyes staring at the blank wall, and covered in blood.

 

He does not stir as Enjolras softly closes the door behind and unbuttons his coat. Does not break his reverie with the wall when Enjolras begins to heat a basin of water, and does nothing but close his eyes when Enjolras sets the water on the table with a rag. But when Enjolras touches his shoulder to remove his bloodstained waistcoat, Combeferre flinches. Unperturbed, Enjolras goes on to rid Combeferre of his bloody clothes, and gently begins to sponge off his face.

 

“It was a child.” Combeferre says heavily when Enjolras takes his glasses off for him.

 

Enjolras pauses slightly before asking “How?”

 

“Amputation that didn’t work,” he leans his head into Enjolras’s chest as Enjolras cleans his hair. Laughs bitterly. “A little boy, not more than three. Lost his leg and his life at the same time. His mother,”  he opens his eyes and sucks his breath in. “Enjolras, his mother never stopped screaming.”

 

There is nothing more to say. As soon as Enjolras deems him sufficiently clean, Combeferre falls into bed. Unable to sleep, Enjolras works on speeches and pamphlets until the candle flickers out, ghosting over Combeferre’s pale and haggard face.

 

———

 

Combeferre sleeps like the dead, Courfeyrac notes as he slips through the door next morning. Enjolras is already up, struggling with his cravat in front of the small mirror.

 

“I thought we could  have some breakfast together, but it seems as you are going out and Combeferre is...indisposed.” Courfeyrac says, tying Enjolras’s cravat for him. Wordlessly, Enjolras jerks his head towards the pile of bloodstained clothes on the floor, and Courfeyrac sags.

 

“I must go see to the workmen today with Feuilly,” Enjolras runs his hands through his hair in distress. “I cannot stay with him.”

 

“I will.” Courfeyrac gathers Combeferre’s clothes and begins to bundle them up. “I have nothing today that cannot be dropped for Combeferre’s sake.” He presses the bundle into Enjolras’s arms. “Take it to the laundress on the Rue de la Verriere, near my own lodgings.” Enjolras nods mutely and squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand in gratitude.

 

“I should be back before one o'clock,” he says standing in the doorway, eyes on Combeferre’s sleeping form.

“Hold, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac is at the table now, a journal of Combeferre’s in his hand. “Has he been keeping his hours at the Necker in here?”

 

Enjolras nods.

 

“He has been working too much,” murmurs Courfeyrac, eyes running up and down the pages inked in Combeferre’s precise hand.

 

Enjolras smiles ruefully. “I cannot stop him. He is determined to save all of Paris.”

 

“As are we all. Now go.”

 

Enjolras goes.

 

———

 

Combeferre wakes to find Courfeyrac sitting in front of the fire, slowly tearing page after page out of Combeferre’s journal and casting them into the flames as he watches them turn to ashes.

 

“What are you doing?” Combeferre’s voice is rough with sleep.

 

Courfeyrac quirks an eyebrow and the side of his mouth into a cheeky grin. “Setting fire to documents I disagree with.”

 

They both laugh, remembering the fate of the poor Touquet Charter that Courfeyrac had flung into the fire in a fit of ecstasy and rage at the Cafe Musain two years earlier. But the laughter is gone from Combeferre’s face as soon as it begins.

 

“And what disagreement could you possibly have with my hospital schedule?” he asks solemnly.

 

“Not with it in of itself,” admits Courfeyrac, tossing another page into the flames. “But with it’s effect on _you_ , mon coeur.”

 

Combeferre moves to get out of bed, but Courfeyrac crosses the room swiftly and takes him by the shoulders, easing him back into the mattress.

 

“I demand you rest,” chides Courfeyrac, climbing onto the bed beside him. Combeferre sinks his head into Courfeyrac’s side as one of Courfeyrac’s arms wrap around his chest, the other tangled in his hair. “Enjolras cannot make you, he is prone to overwork himself as you are. But you cannot defy me in this, I’ll not have it.”

 

“That does not explain why you insist on setting my things on fire.”

 

Courfeyrac lets out a deep exhale. “Reminders.”

 

“Reminders?” Combeferre clasps the arm around his chest.

 

“Don’t think I did not notice that you’ve noted how many people that you could not save during each of your rounds.” Courfeyrac says quietly.

 

Combeferre stiffens. “And you would burn their memories?” He wrenches out of Courfeyrac’s grip, sitting up to face him with wildness in his eyes. “Are the dead who could have lived at my hand as insulting and despicable to you as the _charter_?”

 

“Do not mistake me, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says fiercely. “I would not have dared to burn your logs had you actually written any of those people’s _names_.”

 

Combeferre clenches his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists that clutch the sheets with abandon so as not to make his own palms bleed. “I cannot,” he croaks in desperation. “Courfeyrac, I _cannot_ have so much blood on my hands.”

 

“It is not not on your hands. It is on the hands of the king.” Courfeyrac pronounces resolutely. He reaches a hand to Combeferre’s face, tipping up his chin. “Combeferre, look at me.” Combeferre looks, hands still clenching the bedclothes. “Do not blame yourself. Blames Charles, Blame Louis-Philippe, blame every single monarch who has allowed the streets of this country to be swarmed with the bedraggled and the poor and the sick and the hurt who can only drag themselves to your hospital when it is too late.” Combeferre collapses into Courfeyrac’s arms, his body shaking in dry sobs. “You. Are trying. To save them.”

 

———

 

Combeferre is asleep again when Enjolras returns. Courfeyrac is sitting in bed wearing Combeferre’s glasses on his forehead and  thumbing through a novel, one hand curled into Combeferre’s hair. Combeferre’s face is infinitely more relaxed than how Enjolras left it.

 

“He’s still asleep?” Enjolras’s face creases in worry. These deep sleeps of Combeferre’s have never gone quite so long.

 

“No, no, he woke for a while, I thought it better for him that he sleep again.” Courfeyrac assures him, snapping the novel shut and bounding over to Enjolras. He snatches a paper bag out of Enjolras’s hands, cooing at the pastries inside. “For me?”

 

“For _him_ ,” Enjolras says wryly, easing the bag out of Courfeyrac’s grasp and setting it on the table.

 

“How are the workmen?”

 

Enjolras’s eyes light up. “Promising. Very promising. We are lucky to have Feuilly, he has an ability to appeal to them that I lack. I think we may be able to count on their support when the time comes.”

 

“When the time comes…” Courfeyrac toys with Combeferre’s glasses,  which he has taken off his head. “I would have it come soon, Enjolras. Every day more suffer. And not just the poor,” he finishes, eyeing Combeferre.

 

“I know.” Enjolras is grave. “But I believe the dawn will come. Courfeyrac. We will bring it.”

 

When Combeferre wakes up with smile and sweetness in his face, the three of them sit at the table and share the pastries.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hi at crazyinjune.tumblr.com :)


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